Star Wars: Shadow over Charis
by gibbonraver
Summary: Banished from the public eye for an unknown offense, a cousin to Grand Moff Tarkin must suppress a growing rebellion while staying true to his own code of ethics and morals. It's been a long time since I've posted anything here, but I had an itch that needed scratching after seeing Rogue One, and I scratched it. Don't expect much lore friendliness, I don't do extensive research
1. Imperial Authority

**Star Wars: Shadow over Charis**

 **Ten years have passed since the fall of the REPUBLIC. With brutal efficiency, the newly created GALACTIC EMPIRE has suppressed all opposition and united much of old Republic space under its rule. But despite the best efforts of the ruthless and talented GRAND MOFF TARKIN, many star systems still harbor rebel groups. Facing a manpower crisis, the Empire is forced to garrison many systems in the treacherous OUTER RIM with new and untested troops.**

 **Meanwhile, a rebel movement is beginning to grow on the remote planet of CHARIS, a former member of the SEPARATIST ALLIANCE. As punishment for an unknown crime, MATHAZAR TARKIN, distant cousin to the Grand Moff, has been assigned to command the understaffed garrison on Charis, and suppress the flame of rebellion before it can spread across the galaxy…**

The Lambda Class Imperial shuttle came out of hyperspace just outside of the atmosphere of Charis, which gleamed like an azure jewel in the light of its yellow star. Mathazar Tarkin took in the sight with relish. There was nothing he found more beautiful than gazing down at a distant planet, marveling as its atmosphere transformed simple starlight into a cavalcade of vivid colors, and he knew full well that this would be his last chance to do so for a long time. The shuttle dove gently into the atmosphere, breaking through the upper cloud layer to reveal a sprawling continent below. A vast ocean gleamed to the east, while uncountable miles of green plains stretched off to the west.

"What is the population of this planet again, pilot?" he asked politely. The pilot threw a nervous glance over his shoulder at his superior before answering.

"About 3 million, sir. Not many people want to stick around this backwater." He hesitated, realizing the implied insult in his words. "I mean, that is…"

"Most of the population is centered around the main settlement, correct?" Mathazar inquired smoothly, sparing the young man from any further blunders.

"Y-yes, sir. Starved Homestead, the locals call it. Back when the Empire was still trying to put the pieces back together, we were forced to blockade the planet. The settlers don't do much farming, they rely on imports to stay alive. After a few months, the resistance here just crumbled. More than half the population starved to death."

"I see." It was a tragedy, he thought, that such means were required to enforce cooperation from a populace that should have welcomed the promised peace and stability of the new order. It would be his job to persuade the people of Charis not to repeat their decade-old mistake.

"We're coming up on Stalwart Base, sir," the pilot informed him, breaking Mathazar from his musings. Indeed, the settlement of Starved Homestead had appeared on the horizon, and perhaps a kilometer west of the city, the sleek, dark form of a prefabricated Imperial Base. This would be his home for the foreseeable future.

"Take us in slowly, pilot," he commanded. "Transmit our clearance codes and inform them that their new commanding officer has arrived." The pilot complied, and in a matter of minutes the shuttle was drifting over the base's landing pad. With a slight jerk, the craft made its landing and the boarding ramp lowered with a hiss.

Ten Imperial Stormtroopers were awaiting in military formation as Mathazar disembarked. Standing before them was a young man in the uniform of an Imperial Officer. Judging by the lack of bars on his lapel, he was a new recruit. The young officer met Mathazar with a smart salute. "Welcome to Charis, commander Tarkin. We have been awaiting your arrival."

"I'm sure you have. At ease, cadet." Mathazar took a quick visual survey of the troops before him. Armor; polished to a mirror shine. Weapons; well maintained and obviously newly issued. Stances; rigidly formal, those of green servicemen afraid of incurring the wrath of their superiors. Not altogether unexpected, but not encouraging either. "You are all dismissed. Return to your barracks. Cadet, walk with me." With those words, he strode off into the base. The Stormtroopers stood frozen for a moment, taken aback by his abrupt departure. Slowly, they turned and marched in good order back into the base. The cadet hurried after Mathazar, slowing only when he reached the older man's side. "What is your name, son?" Mathazar asked.

"Dorian Qosh, sir," the cadet replied. "Our old commander was transferred out months ago, and until you arrived, I was the ranking officer at this installation." His words did not carry the tone of reproach they might have. In fact, he sounded vaguely relieved. This was not a man comfortable with the burden of complete control.

"What school did you graduate from, mister Qosh?" Mathazar inquired as the made their way down the corridor, passing a pair of technicians who hurried to step out of their way.

"Corulag Academy, sir," Qosh replied. "I graduated top of my class. Sir, if you will proceed down the hallway to the left-"

"I am quite familiar with the layout of a standard Imperial prefabricated base, thank you. Now, repeat for me the personnel manifest of this installation, if you please."

To his credit, Qosh did not break his stride. "This base currently houses thirty Stormtroopers, six pilots with two backups, and thirty engineers, technicians, and support personnel. We have four standard issue TIE fighters in the hangar and one Lambda-class shuttle on the landing platform. The one you just arrived on. We have one T4 troop transport and 4 74-Z speeder bikes."

"No AT-ST? These prefab bases come standard with one each."

"Apparently, Imperial high command deemed a walker an, erm, unnecessary allocation of resources to this quadrant given its low threat level."

"I see." That was an unpleasant surprise, but it was nothing Mathazar couldn't handle. If everything went as he planned, a walker would not be needed. "Any troublemakers among the personnel?" The pair emerged from the hallway into the command center, a large room with banks of control panels dispersed evenly throughout. The far wall was made up of a massive window, through which Starved Homestead was plainly visible. Several technicians were milling about the chamber, monitoring frequencies and receiving communications.

"A few, sir. One of the TIE pilots, a female, designation TI-94655—"

"Her name, if you please, mister Qosh."

"Err, yes sir. Name, Fera Xan. She has been known to take unauthorized and risky maneuvers during flight exercises. She claims it is to impress the locals."

Mathazar nodded distractedly, his gaze fixed on the settlement in the distance. "And the others?"

"A pair of Stormtroopers, designations TK-49876 and TK-95222…I mean, names Gerrin Hoyle and Marik Krester, use their off-time to frequent a bar in the settlement and, it is believed, to affiliate with the locals in a…less-than-official manner." Mathazar smiled inwardly; he could practically feel the boy blushing.

"A rather harmless batch of troublemakers, wouldn't you say? I don't see any reason to reprimand them."

Qosh stiffened. "Sir, I strongly disagree. Imperial protocol—"

"I appreciate that you received your training at the distinguished Corulag Academy, mister Qosh," Mathazar interrupted, "and I am certain your skills will prove invaluable to me. However, the first lesson you must learn about fieldwork is to forget everything you have been taught about fieldwork. Starting with Imperial protocol."

"You would have us abandon protocol, sir? Then how shall we maintain order?"

Mathazar turned to face Qosh. The command staff had stopped what they were doing to regard the two officers nervously. Mathazar ignored them, focusing on the indignant cadet before him. "Protocol has its uses," he said gently. "But I find that it is often more productive to handle each situation with discretion and ingenuity. We are a vast empire, mister Qosh, and no one set of protocols will be able to satisfactorily handle so many disparate populations. Trust me, and you will see that there are better ways. Now, prep a ground team. I wish to visit the settlement." Qosh saluted stiffly, then turned and left the bridge at a brisk walk. Mathazar sighed, the sound releasing the tension in the air. As the command staff got back to their duties, he turned to look out on Starved Homestead once more. He had a lot of work to do.

Twenty years ago, Charis had been a small but prosperous planet, boasting a population of more than fifty million, with endless potential for growth. Analysts had looked into its future and seen a thriving center of art and culture. The ravages of the Clone Wars and subsequent rise of the Empire had instead doomed it to a slow extinction. The majority of denizens had fled the contested planet as refugees during the conflict between the Republic and the Separatists. The famous incident that had given Starved Homestead its name had further reduced the population. Evidence to this fact was visible from the moment the T4 transport bearing Mathazar and six Stormtroopers entered the outskirts of the settlement. Stone buildings, once proudly decorated with garish paint and beautiful banners, stood abandoned and in severe disrepair, and piles of refuse littered the roads and alleyways. Occasionally, Mathazar would glimpse a sullen face glaring down at them from a window. The people of Charis had been through too much to experience true fear anymore.

The closer they got to the city center, the more populated it became. The civilians were mostly humans, but Mathazar took note of plenty of nonhuman specimens among them: twi'leks, bith, rodians, a small group of toydarians, a lone ithorian. All remnants of Charis' days as a cosmopolitan commercial center. The transport was one of the only vehicles on the road, and there were few droids in sight. Few on Charis could afford such luxuries anymore.

"Your designation is TK-49876, correct?" he asked the trooper next to him as the transport made its way slowly through the milling crowd, which parted reluctantly for it.

"Yes, sir," the trooper replied, his filtered voice as emotionless as the expression on his helmet.

"I've been told of your little adventures, Gerrin Hoyle," Mathazar said evenly. "I'm sure you're aware that fraternizing with the locals goes against Imperial protocol?"

"Sir, I can—"now Mathazar detected a hint of apprehension in his subordinate's voice.

"Because I was made very much aware of that fact by mister Qosh. He's still quite upset that I've decided not to punish you."

"I…don't understand, sir."

Mathazar placed a hand on Hoyle's armored shoulder. "We are here to provide these people with Imperial protection, mister Hoyle, not to lord over them. In some cases, a firm hand is needed. In others, a velvet touch. I'm very interested in seeing this bar in which you and your friend Marik Krester while away your free time."

"Yes, sir," Hoyle replied, sounding relieved and vaguely unnerved by his commander's unorthodox behavior.

The transport came to a stop outside of a tidy two story, from which music could be faintly heard. The building's blue-and-yellow painted exterior was faded but not chipped, giving the place a homely feel. Mathazar disembarked first, followed by his soldiers. Several pedestrians watched with unfriendly eyes as the group made their way inside.

The interior of the building was more cheery than the outside. Fresh paint adorned the walls, and neat wooden chairs were set around large tables throughout the main dining area. A bar was nestled comfortably in the back corner, holovids overhead displaying news feeds or sports games taking place thousands of light years away. The left side of the room housed a platform upon which a band was playing, and several smaller platforms containing scantily clad human and twi'lek dancers. Overall, the place had a friendly, inviting atmosphere which seemed to promise a relaxing evening for anyone who walked in.

Mathazar could not have felt more out of place dressed in his dark imperial uniform, flanked by six Stormtroopers whose white armor stood out painfully against the warm hues of the room. It was past working hours, and the bar was almost packed. Every being turned to the door as the Imperials entered, their apprehension so palpable Mathazar could taste it. Forcing a smile onto his face, he said, "There's no need to stare. You may go back to what you were doing." Several of the looks he received were openly hostile, but in the end there was no denying an Imperial officer. Gradually the denizens turned back to their drinks or their meals or their dances.

Mathazar slipped through the crowded dining area, attempting discretion but knowing that everyone was still watching him from the corners of their eyes. He approached the bar, smile still plastered on his face. The bartender, a young woman with shockingly bright red facial tattoos, turned and called to someone in the back room in a language he did not understand. Moments later, a middle aged woman emerged from the back, wiping her hands on a rag. She noticed Mathazar and the Stormtroopers and her expression darkened.

Mathazar spoke quickly to assuage her fears. "There's no need to worry, ma'am. We haven't come here on official business. This establishment was recommended by one of my men, a regular of yours, I believe. Gerrin Hoyle?"

The woman seemed to relax slightly at the name, and Mathazar had a chance to take in her appearance. She was short, but stocky, with strong features and icy blue eyes that took in his own features with an appraising glance. Her hair was thick and dark, tied back into a braid that fell to her mid-back. Her posture radiated the confidence of one who commanded respect from those around her, and knew it.

"I know Gerrin," she said in a lightly accented voice. "Knew him when he was a child, too, before you Imperial beasts dragged him off to become a killer."

Mathazar was impressed that she could speak so confrontationally to an Imperial officer. "Mister Hoyle was trained to protect the citizens of the empire, and to establish peace and security throughout the galaxy."

The woman looked around and raised an eyebrow. "Yes, we have seen evidence of this peace and security many times over the past few years."

She definitely had courage, this bar owner. Mathazar was beginning to understand why his subordinates had taken a liking to this place. "I am more than happy to debate politics with you any time, miss…"

"Santhea," the woman replied.

"Miss Santhea. However, at the moment my men and I would like to be seated. If there is no room available, we would be happy to wait until a table becomes open."

Again Santhea gave him an appraising once-over. Apparently she liked what she saw, because she said, "I'll have Greia clear a table for you. Sit down and enjoy yourselves. Friends of Gerrin are friends of mine, whatever uniform they wear."


	2. Imperial Efficiency

Gerrin Hoyle wasn't quite sure what to make of his new commanding officer. In all of his years at the academy and his scant few months in the field, he had never met anyone quite like Mathazar Tarkin. Gerrin glanced over his shoulder towards where the old man was sitting at a nearby table, along with four of Gerrin's fellow Stormtroopers. The soldiers had removed their helmets, leaving them on the floor beside their chairs. Greia, Santhea's assistant, had just placed a steaming plate of food before Tarkin, and he was smiling and thanking her graciously.

"Jealous, Hoyle?" asked Marik, seated to his right. Gerrin turned to his smirking friend. "Seems even that old rancor has more game than you."

"Go shove it up your exhaust port, Krester," Gerrin retorted. "I'm just wondering how we were lucky enough to get saddled with the only Imperial officer who doesn't have a stick shoved up his—" a glass was set on the bar before him with an audible _clunk,_ startling the pair of troopers. Santhea stood behind the bar, an amused smile on her lips.

"Language, Gerrin," she scolded gently. "There are ladies present."

"As you command, ma'am," Gerrin said, dipping his head in a sarcastic bow. He lifted the glass to his lips and took a sip. The burning sensation that followed was similar to what he imagined eating a proton torpedo would feel like. _Good brandy tastes like fire going down._ Suppressing a cough, he set the glass down and shook his head, blowing out a breath. "Strong stuff."

"From one of the vineries west of town. Aged for forty years. I thought the arrival of your new commander warranted a bit of celebration."

Gerrin's mouth twisted sardonically. "Of course. Here's to endless cycles of drills and inspections to come."

Santhea frowned at him. "There's no need to be so cynical, Gerrin. He seems like a good sort of man. Not something you can say for most people in that uniform."

"Not something you can say for most people in this one, either," Marik said playfully, tapping his gleaming breastplate.

"Well then, I suppose I'm lucky that two of the good ones ended up here." She smiled at the both of them, then made her way back into the kitchen as Greia took up her spot behind the bar again. Gerrin suppressed a smile as he lifted the glass to his lips once more. Santhea was the reason he kept dragging Marik back to this place. His parents had died during the blockade of Charis ten years ago, shortly before he was 'recruited' into the academy. Santhea was the only person left from his childhood, and the closest thing to a mother he had.

"His name's Tarkin, right?" Marik said, glancing over at Mathazar again. "As in, _the_ Tarkins? Who do you think he ticked off to get posted to this backwater?"

"Doesn't matter to me," Gerrin replied, swilling the last of the alcohol around in his glass. He stared into the lightly bubbling liquid. _Good brandy tastes like fire going down._ His father had said that with a laugh after Gerrin had taken a sip from his glass and come up coughing. Fifteen years ago. "We just follow orders." Tipping his head back, he downed the last of his drink.

The troopers left the bar an hour later, having had their fill of alcohol and Santhea's delicious cooking. Mathazar had taken great care to ensure his men didn't become intoxicated, but the brandy still burned in Gerrin's gut. Greia smiled at him as he got up to follow his squad out. He smiled back, though he felt not a single spark of affection for her. The academy had torn the capacity for emotions like love and lust from him long, long ago. Tarkin left a generous tip behind as he and the six Stormtroopers boarded the T4 transport and set off back towards Stalwart Base.

The troopers had donned their helmets once more, and Gerrin's face was untouched by the cool evening breeze as he maneuvered the open-top transport along now-deserted streets. Beside him, Tarkin had removed his officer's cap, his short grey hair ruffled by the wind. "Quite a pleasant evening, wouldn't you agree, mister Hoyle?" he asked, having to raise his voice to be heard over the whine of the engine.

"Yes, sir," Gerrin replied in the clipped, emotionless tone that had been drilled into him for almost a decade. They had passed out of the populated area of the city and were once more in the outer ruins. The roads were narrower here, and he was forced to bring the transport down to a crawl to maneuver.

"You have good taste in bars, I must say. I shall have to make a point of visiting at least once a month."

"Yes, sir."

Tarkin seemed displeased by his response. He turned towards Gerrin and opened his mouth to speak once more. The motion saved his life, for at that moment a blaster bolt seared through the air, past the spot where Tarkin's head had been a moment earlier, and struck the trooper behind him in the chest.

Gerrin immediately halted the transport as explosions erupted from the buildings directly ahead, causing massive piles of debris to fall into the road. Similar explosions sounded to the rear, sealing off their escape route. Tarkin reacted instantly, shouting orders at his men.

"Rebels! Out, out! Find cover! Hoyle, Krester, get that trooper to cover!" He indicated the trooper who had been hit as more laser blasts scorched the transport's plating. Gerrin hesitated. At the academy, he had been trained to leave fallen comrades to their fate. Only once victory had been achieved was there time to count the dead. "Move, trooper!" Tarkin commanded, snapping Gerrin out of his daze. Together, he and Marik got their fellow out of the vehicle and, one arm over each of their shoulders, helped him into cover behind an alcove.

The squad had followed standard combat procedure, scattering into three different locations to make it harder to pin them all down. Two men, Karn Vraxes and Saren Wayfinder, had ducked behind a pile of refuse directly across the street from Gerrin and Marik. Kressin Morlock was behind the bulky transport with Tarkin, slightly ahead of the others. Blaster bolts rained down on them all intermittently. "I need a sitrep," Tarkin barked into his communicator. Gerrin heard the commander as clearly as though they were beside one another. "What is the fallen trooper's status?"  
Gerrin nudged the trooper, whose name he couldn't recall, and saw the man's chest heave as he drew in a breath. "Trooper down, but not KIA." It was to be expected; Stormtrooper armor was designed in such a way that the energy from blaster bolts was most often distributed throughout the armor, rather than focused on the point of impact. As a result, nearly 2 out of every 3 blaster strikes proved not only non-lethal, but entirely harmless. The man would be unconscious for a few minutes, nothing more.

"Understood," Tarkin replied. "Wayfinder, do you have eyes on the enemy?"

It took the trooper a moment to respond. "Roger that, sir. Blaster fire coming from the second floor of the red building, at your two o'clock. I see movement in the green building at your ten as well."

"Number of hostiles?"

"…Estimate at least twenty. Twelve in the red building, eight in the green.

"Understood. Wayfinder, provide covering fire on the red building on my mark. Krester, cover green. Vraxes and Morlock, you storm the red building at that time. Hoyle, you're with me on green. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir!" the troopers replied as one.

"On my mark…now!"

Marik rose from cover to unleash a hail of fire on the green building. His bolts crossed paths with Wayfinder's on their way to the red building. At the same time, Gerrin dashed for the transport, doubled over to provide a smaller profile for the assailants. A blaster bolt seared past his head, but Gerrin's training allowed him to continue on without flinching. He reached the transport and took cover beside Tarkin. The commander's head was still bare, his cap forgotten on the floor of the transport, and he had pulled out his laser pistol. For his part, Gerrin primed his E-11 blaster rifle. Tarkin nodded, and the two moved swiftly from behind the transport towards the green building.

Marik was doing his job well; few of the enemy had the courage to emerge from cover and fire down on Tarkin and Gerrin as they made their advance. One of the braver or dumber hostiles rose into view at a window, blaster pistol aimed straight at Tarkin. Gerrin didn't have time to determine the man's species before a blast from Marik took his face off. The man collapsed out of view, and Gerrin heard his friend's satisfied voice over the comlink. "Scratch one hostile." By that time Gerrin and Tarkin had reached the base of the building. A red door marked the only entrance visible, and the pair took up flanking positions on either side. Gerrin could hear movement from within as the rebels prepared for the assault. Tarkin looked across at Gerrin and nodded. Moving in front of the door, Gerrin mustered his strength and kicked it inwards.

Four or five rebels were waiting in the small dining room on the other side, armed with blaster pistols and taking cover behind a pair of tables that had been flipped on their sides. Every single one flinched as Gerrin battered down the door, allowing him to advance inside uncontested, pouring blaster fire onto the enemy as he did. Tarkin followed, picking off the rebels with more precise shots. Their opponents never stood a chance.

"Scratch five," Gerrin reported over the comlink. The sounds of blaster fire from across the street confirmed that Vraxes and Morlock had engaged their targets. "By my count, we have two hostiles unaccounted for, sir" he said to Tarkin. The commander nodded grimly, and the two of them advanced with caution to the hallway, stepping over five charred corpses as they did so. As they cleared the rooms on the first floor, the blaster fire stopped across the street. Vraxes reported, "Scratch nine. Three ran off into the ruins. Morlock was injured in the arm, but he'll be fine."

"Understood," Tarkin replied. He looked to Gerrin, then towards the stairs leading to the second floor. Taking the hint, Gerrin took point and advanced up the stairwell. The second floor was smaller than the first, consisting only of a large parlor. A set of glass doors led out onto a balcony which faced away from the ambush point. The doors were open. Across from them, Marik's kill lay crumpled on the floor. The telltale horns on what was left of his head identified him as a Devaronian.

There was only one place the rebels could be now. Gerrin moved towards the doors, blaster held at the ready. Tarkin walked beside him, pistol held casually at his side. As they reached the doors, he placed a hand on Gerrin's blaster and forced him to lower it. In a loud voice, he said, "You should surrender, you know. You cannot escape."

In response, a young human male leaped into view from the left side of the balcony, custom rifle raising to aim at Tarkin's head. The Imperial officer casually lifted his pistol and shot the man in the heart. The rebel staggered back, wavered, and toppled backwards over the balcony. "I will say this once more. Surrender."  
"D-don't shoot!" another voice cried. From the right of the balcony another man emerged, hands on his head. His clothing was ragged and dirty, his eyes wide with terror. As he did so, Gerrin heard the telltale whine of speeder bike engines roaring through the ruins. Over the comms, Cadet Qosh's voice said, "Squadron two has arrived, Commander Tarkin. Ready to reinforce."

"That will not be necessary, mister Qosh," Tarkin replied. "The rebels have been routed. Please assist in cleanup and inform Stalwart Base to prepare a cell. We have a prisoner." Turning to Gerrin, he said, "Mister Hoyle, arrest this man." Gerrin obeyed, turning the rebel around and binding him with a pair of stun cuffs. Pushing the trembling prisoner ahead of him, he made his way down the stairs and out of the slaughterhouse he and Tarkin had created.

 _Battle Report Charis-0001_

 _Report filed by Cmdr. Tarkin, commanding officer of Stalwart Base_

 _Location of battle: Unnamed road in S.H. outskirts._

 _Enemy casualties: 10 human males(KIA), 1 human female(KIA), 1 ithorian male(KIA), 2 rodian males(KIA), 1 devaronian male(KIA), 1 human male(Captured For Interrogation)_

 _Friendly casualties: 1 Stormtrooper(WIA)_

 _Notes: If this is the best the rebels of Charis have to offer, the Empire has little to fear._


	3. Imperial Clemency

Denn Corgen was a farmer by trade and nature, born and raised on an estate a few hours north of Starved Homestead, where his father had worked as a helper for a wealthy landowner. The Imperial blockade had destroyed said landowner's fortune, leaving him and all of his workers practically destitute. Corgen's father had starved to death, giving his son what little food remained rather than take any himself. Since then, Corgen had scraped by on what crops he was able to produce amid the abandoned shell of the estate, nurturing a deep-seated hatred for the Empire all the while. It was around this time that the rebel group on Charis had recruited the bitter young man to their cause.

"Do you have anything else?" Tarkin asked Qosh. The two stood outside of Stalwart Base's sole interrogation chamber, in which Denn Corgen was now being held. To look at him, Qosh would never have guessed the older officer had been engaged in deadly combat mere hours ago. Tarkin had replaced his battle-stained uniform with a fresh one, and he spoke like a man who hadn't been fighting for his life recently.

"Unfortunately not, sir," Qosh replied, glancing down at the data slate in his hand. "This is all the information I was able to acquire about the prisoner. Record keeping hasn't exactly been a priority to the Charisians since the blockade."

Tarkin sighed and claimed the slate back from Qosh. "It will have to do. Come, we must attend to our guest." Punching in his passcode for the interrogation room door, Tarkin stepped inside. Qosh followed him in. Corgen sat at a metal table in the center of the room, his hands secured by shock cuffs and attached to the table by a short length of chain. Two Stormtroopers loomed behind him, blasters set to stun.

The small, nervous man who was their prisoner scarcely seemed to merit even those rudimentary security precautions. Denn Corgen's head jerked sharply as the officers entered the chamber, his beady eyes following them as they stepped up to the table. Qosh hid his distaste behind a blank mask; something about the way Corgen moved reminded him of an overeager monkey. A particularly greasy monkey at that. Tarkin took his place in a chair across the table from the rebel, while Qosh moved to stand beside and slightly behind his commander.

A charged silence filled the air. Corgen licked his lips, glancing over each shoulder at the Stormtroopers behind him. He looked back at Tarkin, then quickly glanced at Qosh. Another look at the Stormtroopers. Another look at Qosh. It seemed he was now trying to look anywhere but at the stern face of the grey haired Imperial before him. Finally, however, he was unable to bear it any longer. "I won't tell you anything," he blurted out quickly, gaze fixed to the upper left corner of the room behind Tarkin.

Tarkin shifted his position in the chair and gave a fatherly sigh. "Denn—may I call you Denn?—you misunderstand me. I'm not here to interrogate you. I simply wish to have a conversation." His voice suddenly turned hard and icy. "Only once we're done here will I decide whether to let Mister Qosh demonstrate the interrogation techniques he learned at the Corulag Academy."

Ah, so Tarkin was an officer who didn't like to get his hands dirty with grunt work. Qosh was fine with that; he didn't relish torture, but neither was he particularly repulsed by it. This was simply the beginning stage of the interrogation, where the seeds of fear were to be planted. Qosh could already see those seeds bearing fruit in Corgen's mind as the man's eyes widened in horror. He glanced to Qosh, then quickly diverted his gaze back to the corner.

"Of course," Tarkin continued, steepling his hands and gazing at Corgen over them, "if you tell me what I need to know right now, we can completely avoid that unpleasantness." His voice was silky smooth once again, the reassuring tone of a man who wanted to help his friend out of a bad situation. "Wouldn't that be much better than the alternative?"

Qosh was impressed. Barely five minutes into the interrogation, and Corgen was already about to crack. He was fidgeting even more now, his gaze darting about the room, his hands clasping and unclasping. Finally, he swallowed and said, "You'll kill me no matter what I do. I won't betray the rebellion." He suddenly clamped his mouth shut, as if informing Tarkin that there was, in fact, a rebellion on Charis would compromise him somehow.

This was the point where Tarkin would break out the classic line from the Academy; _Ah, but some deaths are more painful than other_ s. Qosh had misjudged the man. It was almost a privilege to see a veteran at work like this. Tarkin leaned forward and said in a quiet, conspiratorial voice, "Ah, but that's where you're wrong, Denn. I'm not going to kill you."

What? Qosh was sure he had misheard the man. Corgen seemed to share Qosh's astonishment. He was gaping at Tarkin like a beached fish, his eyes wide as saucers. "You…you can't expect me to fall for that," he spluttered indignantly. "I'm not an idiot."

"I know you aren't, Denn. You're quite clearly an intelligent, hard-working young man who has been led astray by seditious lies. I have no intention of punishing you for your mistakes, provided that you tell me all you know. Instead, I have an offer for you." The old man placed the data slate on the table and slid it over to his prisoner. Corgen took it tentatively and observed what Tarkin had brought to the screen. He gasped.

"This is…this is an entire fake identity! For a farmer on Ukio." He looked up at Tarkin with wonder in his eyes. "You would do this…for me? Why?"

Tarkin smiled. "Did I not explain myself already? I believe you have been led astray by vile falsehoods perpetrated against the Empire. I wish to show you that we are not the monsters your rebel friends make us out to be. Think of it, Denn. A new life, far away from this dying world. Could you ask for more?"

Denn bit his lower lip, looking from Tarkin to the data slate, to Tarkin again. Finally, he said in a small, defeated voice, "Fine. What do you want to know?"

Afterwards, Qosh hurried to catch up with Tarkin as he strode away from the interrogation chamber. "Sir," he said brusquely. "Who was that display meant to impress?" When Tarkin did not even slow his pace, it took all of Qosh's self-discipline not to reach out and grab his superior's arm to force him to halt.

"I'm not quite sure what you mean, Mister Qosh," Tarkin replied coolly as he walked. "I just witnessed the conversion of a rebel to an Imperial Citizen."

"You know protocol, sir," Qosh shot back acidly. "Traitors cannot be allowed to live. If that man walks free again, he will simply join back up with whatever rebel cell has spawned on Ukio as though nothing had ever happened."

"Or perhaps he will not, and the Empire will have gained a productive member of society for its troubles. We are maintaining an Empire, Mister Qosh, not a graveyard."

"We will maintain _nothing_ if we do not punish rebellion strictly, _sir."_

At this, Tarkin turned on his heel to face Qosh's seething rage with a mask of ice. "You will watch your tone while speaking to a superior officer," he said coldly.

"Or what? Will you give me a slap on the wrist?"

"Do not test me, boy. I was committing abominations before you were born. I have found that not only is wanton killing distasteful, it is unnecessary and inefficient. The Empire requires unity—unity, do you hear me?—and a populace that lives in terror can never truly be unified. Now go prepare a squad to raid Corgen's farmstead, before you say something that will force me to discharge you from service."

Qosh forced down his anger, gave Tarkin a stiff salute, and stormed away. As he made his way through the familiar halls of Stalwart Base, only one thought filled his mind; Tarkin had to be eliminated, before his foolish policies destroyed them all.


	4. Imperial Casualties

9\. 1. 5. Gerrin hesitated as he reached for the pazaak deck to reveal the next card. If he got anything over a five, his total number would be over twenty and he would lose the game automatically. His hand had no reducing cards, and the highest card he could play without going over was a four, which would put him at nineteen. After a moment of contemplation, he withdrew his hand and placed down his four, then tapped one the table.

"Playing it safe, are you?" Saren Wayfinder commented, looking over his cards at his fellow trooper. They were sitting at a table in the Squad 1 barracks, the rest of the squad dozing in their bunks, cleaning their weapons, or watching some racy holovid drama. "I think you should have gone for it. There might have been a five there."

Gerrin snorted. "I doubt it." Wayfinder had drawn three cards from the main deck, two of which were fives. That left only one remaining in the deck out of a total of thirty four cards. "I don't have that kind of luck."

"Luck has nothing to do with it, my friend," Wayfinder replied with a smile. He was a handsome man in his mid-thirties, with neatly trimmed brown hair and a short beard. He reached out and flipped the top card of the deck over, revealing a '5' emblazoned in charcoal on the slender slip of bark. The base had a holo-table where pazaak could be played, but the troopers of Squad 1 preferred the weight and texture of physical cards. "You see? All you had to do was keep faith. The force would have seen you to victory."

Nearby, Marik snorted. Gerrin couldn't help but agree with his friend. Wayfinder was something of an unofficial spiritual leader for the squad, and while the others might appreciate his calm and reassuring demeanor, Gerrin had no time for superstitions. "Yes, I'm sure that the all-powerful energy field that binds all living things was eager to help me win in a card game."

"You would be surprised, Gerrin. The force has a hand in everything," Wayfinder replied, laying down a three card from his hand. 5. 1. 5. 5. 3. Nineteen in total, the same as Gerrin's, which meant that Wayfinder was tied with him. Gerrin groaned. He may not have won, but at the very least he hadn't lost either. He reached out to put the cards back into the deck, but Wayfinder held up a hand to stop him. "I believe I still have a turn left," he said, smiling.

Gerrin laughed. "Are you serious? There are only two ones left in that deck, and I know for a fact that your starter deck didn't have any reducing cards in it."

"Watch and learn, friend," Wayfinder replied. He reached out and placed his hand on top of the main deck. He took a deep breath and flipped the card over. Gerrin stared in disbelief at the bold '1' emblazoned upon it.

"Blast!" he swore. "How the hell did you know that was there?"

"I didn't," Wayfinder said. "I trusted in the force." Seeing Gerrin's skeptical look, he leaned forward. "It's not as ridiculous as you seem to think. Think about it; how did Emperor Palpatine survive an assassination attempt by four of the most powerful jedi?"

Gerrin shrugged. "I don't know. His guards saved him, I guess."

Wayfinder shook his head. "A handful of Senate guards against four jedi? No, the force protected him. The force allowed the Empire to rise, and the force will ensure that it remains standing for a thousand years." As he spoke, he fingered an amulet around his throat, some kind of metal alloy carved with a strange symbol, definitely not regulation.

"Whatever you say, Saren," Gerrin replied, thoroughly uncomfortable with this conversation. He reached out to gather the cards up again, but suddenly Qosh's voice boomed over the base's intercom.

"Squad 1 report to the landing platform immediately. Squad 1 to the landing platform."

The men got to their feet, shutting off holovids and slipping on their helmets. Wayfinder sighed. "I suppose our game will have to wait until we get back. Well, as the force wills it." He grinned at Gerrin, who rolled his eyes before slipping on his own helmet.

"Whatever you say, Saren. Now let's go shoot some rebels."

The Lambda-class shuttle shuddered in the air, jostling the troopers in their seats. Gerrin was grateful that he hadn't eaten recently, or he might have committed a rather extreme breach of protocol by removing his helmet to vomit. His squad-mates seemed to be handling the trip better than he was. To his left, Marik was joking with Karn about one of the dancers at Santhea's bar. Across from him, Kressin made a comment to Zard about not getting knocked out this time, which Zard responded to by cuffing him on the back of the head. To Zard's right, Wayfinder had his head bowed, fist clasped to his chest over where his medallion would be. _Don't bother asking the force to save you,_ Gerrin thought. _Your blaster is going to be more useful for that._ And sitting near the cockpit, Dorian Qosh watched them all impassively. The little upstart's uniform was freshly pressed, not a single hair out of place. Nobody liked Qosh, but his efficiency and honesty had earned him some modicum of respect.

The shuttle pilot glanced over his shoulder and announced, "We'll be reaching the estate that rebel pointed us to in about two minutes." Qosh nodded to him and stood to address the troops.

"You heard him, gentlemen. In a few moments we will be landing at a country estate outside of Starved homestead, previously thought abandoned. A dust storm is approaching, so we will have to act fast to avoid being caught up in it. We have no idea how many rebels will be crawling around there, so do not let your guard down. I want a clean sweep. No one escapes, no one survives. Understood?" Squad 1 let out a loud 'affirmative, sir,' and Qosh took his seat once more.

"Thirty seconds!" The craft shuddered again, and Gerrin imagined he could hear the rusted sides of the damned thing creaking. Twenty seconds went by in breathless silence. Then, suddenly, the shuttle swerved down. "Rockets from the building!" the pilot screamed. "We almost took a hit."

Qosh surged to his feet and went to stand behind the pilot's shoulder. "How many rockets did you count?"

"Four, sir, fired at the same time."

Qosh nodded. "Tell the TIE escorts to stay clear until the rockets have been neutralized, then land us in the vineyard. We'll advance to the building and clean them out. Troopers, on your feet!" The sound of plasteel on steel echoed through the small space as Squad 1 complied, turning to face the exit ramp and priming their blasters. After a moment, there was a loud *thunk* as the shuttle came to a landing. Then the ramp lowered and Gerrin and his squadmates rushed out into battle.

They emerged at the edge of the vineyard. Row after row of wooden poles were jammed into the ground, supporting the weight of the vines, which looked to Gerrin as if they hadn't seen any care in decades. The wind was blowing wildly, kicking up dust and causing the poles to tilt and bend. Vines whipped wildly this way and that as if they yearned to lash out at the Stormtroopers invading their territory. A hundred meters away Gerrin could see the estate manor perched atop a low hill, three stories of gleaming white walls with a terra cotta roof. Far beyond that, but rapidly approaching, was a massive, seething brown wall that stretched to the horizon in both directions; the dust storm. The manor itself would be designed to withstand the frequent storms that struck the plains outside of Starved Homestead, but any sentient outside would be blown away. The squad had to take that building, or die.

Qosh emerged from the shuttle, a rebreather mask over his face to shield him from the dust. He carried a pistol in one hand and a datapad in the other. "Move out!" He commanded. His voice would have been barely audible over the wind had he not been speaking into his comm. "Split into groups of two and head for the manor. Prioritize eliminating the rocket troopers so our TIEs can come in and support. Go!"

Squad 1 broke off, getting into their usual pairs: Kressin with Karn, Wayfinder with Zard, and Gerrin with Marik. "I can tell this is going to be fun," Marik said cheerfully, switching to a private frequency as they jogged down one of the paths through the vineyard. "How many rebels do you think you're gonna get? I still need to even up the score from that skirmish in town."

"As if you could hit the broad side of that manor to save your life," Gerrin retorted, though he kept his eyes open as they closed the distance to the rebel hideout. "Face it, Krestor, you're never going to beat me." Suddenly, a flicker of movement to their right caught his eyes. He whirled, but Marik was faster. He fired a single shot, and a human male in farmhand's clothing fell across the path behind them, a blaster pistol clutched in his dead hand.

"You're right. I just can't seem to hit anything with this piece of junk," Marik said. Gerrin could practically feel him smirking. The two reported their kill and continued on their way, keeping their heads on a swivel. A few laser blasts to their left signaled that another unit had made contact with the enemy. After a moment, the blasts died down.

"Three rebels KIA," Wayfinder reported over comms. "Nearing the front entrance of the manor. It looks as though they're well dug in."

"Copy that, ST-34298," Qosh responded. "All units, use of thermal detonators against the hostiles is authorized. Wield at your discretion."

Marik whooped at the command; he was rather fond of large explosions. They were approaching the right side of the manor now, and Gerrin could see the tips of blaster rifles poking through windows on all floors. For once he cursed his gleaming white armor, which would make him an easy target for the sharpshooters. As soon as he had the thought, blaster fire began to rain down on their position. Acting on instinct, he dove into an irrigation trench at the base of the hill. Marik followed, swearing like a fiend.

"This is a right mess we've gotten ourselves into, eh?" his friend joked as he peeked out and snapped off a few shots. "I can't get a good shot at this angle. We need to smoke them out with a detonator or two."

"We're too far away for that," Gerrin replied. He rose and fired at one of the windows, forcing the rebel inside to take cover before ducking back down himself as the scum's comrades turned their attention to him. Blaster fire could be heard echoing from other parts of the manor, indicating that the rest of the squad had made contact. "We'll get picked off like wamp rats before we get into range." He glanced beyond the manor and swore to himself. The dust wall was barely three miles away now. If it hit before they were inside, they would be tossed around like leaves on the wind.

Marik shook his head. "Watch and learn, buddy. Cover me." Dropping his blaster, he unclipped two thermal detonators form his belt. "Three, two, one, now!"

Gerrin had no time to object. As Marik leaped from the trench, he stood and began firing on the sharpshooters. Marik closed the distance quickly, moving at a crouch. A few of the rebels fired potshots in his direction, but the majority were focused on the trooper who was actually armed and firing on them. They didn't realize what was happening until it was too late.

Marik was about halfway up the hill now. He tossed one the detonators at the second story window. Gerrin could see that his throw would have barely missed, but the wind picked up at the last moment and carried the detonator through the window. Marik tossed the second one into a window on the first floor, then bolted back for the trench. The dust wall was scarcely a mile in the distance. About five seconds after Marik had tossed the first detonator, an explosion devastated that floor, blowing out the clean white walls and reducing the rooms, furniture, and people within them to powder. A moment later, the detonator on the first floor did the same thing. Unable to support itself now that its foundations had been destroyed, the third floor section slumped and collapsed, the roof following it down amid the screams and shouts of the few surviving rebels.

Gerrin stared grimly at the carnage. Perhaps a fifth of the entire manor had been reduced to rubble by those two explosions, not to mention the dozens killed or maimed. It had been necessary, of course, but that didn't mean he had to like it. Still, he had the feeling that Commander Tarkin would not have approved of what had just been done.

Marik slid down the last bit of the hill and sat on the rim of the trench, laughing. "Did you see that, Gerrin? Those laser-brains never knew what hit them. That's what I call Imperial superiority!" Gerrin didn't bother faking a smile; his helmet would hide his true feelings. Instead, he simply patted Marik on the shoulder as his friend tiltied his head forward and began to make his report to Qosh. "Commander, the left flank is neutralized. Estimate a kill count of—"

A single blaster shot rang out, and Marik slumped forward, tumbling into the trench. Gerrin stared down disbelievingly at the scorching hole at the base of Marik's neck, one of the few smalled weak points in Stormtrooper armor. The ground titled beneath him, and he placed his hand on the side of the trench to steady himself. He looked up and saw a dirty, bleeding face peeking out of the rubble, peering down the sights of a marksman rifle, which was now aimed at him. He dove to the side as a blaster bolt seared past the spot where his head had been moments before.

One man. One man had survived the carnage Marik had wrought. After everything, he had been killed by a single shot from a man who should have been dead. Gerrin rose to his feet and saw the rebel doing the same, shaking off dust and charging down the hill with his rifletrained on Gerrin. The next shot took him in the shoulder, throwing him back against the trench wall. Somehow, he remained standing. He raised his blaster rifle with one hand and snapped off a shot, catching the rebel in the leg. The scum tumbled to the ground, but came up with blaster still in hand. They were less than three meters from one another now. The next shot would be the killing one. Gerrin was ready for it. His finger began to squeeze the trigger as he stared into the face of the…girl? A young girl stared back at him, probably no more than sixteen years old. Her eyes were full of anger and hate, as well as a dawning realization at what was about to happen. She was just a kid.

 _It doesn't matter,_ Gerrin told himself. _She killed Marik. She's a rebel, a traitor to the Empire._ Yes, that was the way to think of it. He began to pull the trigger once more. The wind was louder now, the dust thicker. He had only a moment to think, _The dust storm. I forgot._ Then it descended on them like a wave, and everything went dark.


End file.
